


Hard to Tie Down

by Skalidra



Series: The Ties that Bind [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Bondage, Consensual Violence, Consent Play, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Gags, Intercrural Sex, JayTim Week 2016, Kidnapping Play, M/M, Minor Gunplay, Restraints, Sexual Roleplay, Spanking, Subspace, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7649026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason and Tim have one night set aside a month for a date night, but the morning of, Bruce calls and demands that Tim join him at one of the Wayne social events, since no one else is available. It really shouldn't surprise either of them that Jason shows up to it as the Red Hood, making a show out of 'kidnapping' Timothy Drake. Although, Tim's probably a little more into it than he should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard to Tie Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Defiance1031](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiance1031/gifts).



> Hello! So, we're at day 3 of JayTim week; Suit and Tie! It's a uh... Well, this is porn, frankly. Lots of porn. Lots of _really kinky_ porn. Read those tags, people (and if I missed anything let me know, because there was a lot to remember). Enjoy!

It isn't actually his phone ringing that wakes him up — he developed a complete immunity to all of his various ringtones and notification noises a long time ago — but instead a hand shoving at his waist, paired with deep, irritated grumbling at the back of his neck. He pries himself out of sleep, slow and unwilling, and only then registers that his phone is blaring its song over on the bedside table. It's also vibrating hard enough to shake everything else on the table. At least until it falls silent.

He relaxes again, closing his eyes — if they want his attention they can leave a message — and pressing backwards into the solid heat of Jason's chest. Jason doesn't relax like he usually does though, and after a second he understands why, when his phone starts back up.

"Answer th' goddamn phone," Jason grumbles, shoving at his waist again.

He whines, letting himself be pushed flat against the bed but refusing to go any further than that.

"Tim," Jason starts, voice a little more frustrated, "answer your goddamn phone before I throw it across the room."

"Wouldn't hurt it," he answers, burying his head a little further into the pillow and not caring even a little how it slurs and muffles his voice. "S fine; make you feel better. They'll leave a message."

"That's the _fifth time_ ," Jason almost snarls. "I will _find_ a way to melt it into fucking scraps, Tim, I swear to god. I will call Kori and Roy if I have to."

That threat gets through the fog of sleep refusing to leave his head, and he gives a long, drawn out groan before blindly flopping his arm out and groping for the phone. He grabs it, answers the call, and with gargantuan effort manages to flip over and lie on his back so he can raise the phone to his ear and just _whine_ into it. Jason moves closer, lining up against his side and flinging a heavy arm across his chest to drag him closer.

 _"Good morning, Tim,"_ comes Bruce voice, small and mechanical through the speaker of the phone.

"Not with you calling five goddamn times it isn't," Jason complains. "You could just, I don't know, _call me instead_ , you morning-ruining jackass."

 _"Good morning, Jason,"_ Bruce says, instead of any kind of apology. _"Tim, there's a social event at the manor tonight. You're coming. Dick's in Bludhaven and Damian's on an overnight school trip and won't be back in time."_

Jason snorts — probably at the thought of Damian locked up with a bunch of other kids and _miserable_ — and he reaches up with his free hand and tangles his fingers in Jason's hair, managing to mumble, "Trouble?"

It's probably a good thing that most of his family can translate his sleepy abbreviations.

_"None expected. I'll be slipping out halfway through to run a patrol; we need a presence to stay at the party and manage the guests."_

"Wait, _tonight?_ " Jason stresses, and then at a small noise of confirmation snarls, "Fuck no. This is date night; you're not stealing him."

For a second there's silence. He drags himself a little closer to being awake, stretching his jaw in a yawn and rubbing his fingers over Jason's scalp. "Really need me?" he asks, and Jason gives a little growl into the side of his neck, arm tightening over his chest.

 _"It's necessary,"_ is the immediate answer.

Before Jason can say anything, or Bruce can say anything _more_ , he offers, "We'll talk about it," and hangs up.

Then he tosses the phone to land somewhere near the foot of the bed, rolls onto his side, and wiggles up against Jason's chest. Jason grumbles, but definitely doesn't stop him, and doesn't do anything but slide that arm around his back and drag him in a little harder, mouth pressing against the top of his head. He groans satisfaction at the hand spread wide across his back, reaching down as much as he can with his arm trapped to find where the sheets have gotten stuck so he can drag them back up and over both their shoulders. It encompasses him in a little cocoon, which is just about perfect.

"We have _plans_ ," Jason says into his hair; the only part of him above the blankets.

"Can we wait till I'm awake?" he pleads, and Jason gives one of those little, unhappy growling noises. He sighs, tilting his head up and wiggling a little higher until he can catch Jason's mouth in a soft kiss. It's a little gross — morning breath — but he has tasted nastier things and he's pretty willing to sacrifice small things to keep Jason happy.

"It's our night," Jason murmurs, against his mouth. "He should have asked a while ago."

"He didn't know that."

" _Bullshit_ he didn't know that. Babe, come on, I was going to cook. Fresh ingredients and everything." Jason sounds vaguely pleading, and he really does want to just give in and tell Jason _sure_ ; just let Bruce figure things out on his own and have their night.

"Jason…” he whispers, and Jason gives a sigh, forehead pressing to his.

"Yeah, I know." Jason kisses him again, soft and brief, and then asks, "Tomorrow? Or, maybe you can sneak out early or something?"

"I'll see what I can do," he promises.

* * *

The answer is: he can't do anything. Dick and Damian really are gone, and he can't get a hold of Cass, who is the only other public member of their family. Sure, Barbara, Steph, and Jason _could_ come, but they wouldn't fill that need for there to be a Wayne at the actual Wayne party. Not that it would exactly be a surprise if Bruce vanished halfway through the night and no one was here to host. Bruce has definitely done that to all of them before.

Still, being a 'good person' wins out in the end, so he ends up making small talk with dozens of socialites, all dressed up in one of the suits that Alfred keeps carefully in storage for all of them. Storage _at the manor_ , because they can't be trusted with keeping their suits in various apartments, apparently. He would guess that rule got started with Dick, because it's been in effect as long as he's been around.

He really hates this part of all of their jobs. Granted, not as much as Damian, and he's heard that Jason absolutely _loathed_ this part of being a Wayne while he was still required to do it. Not surprising. Damian despises what he calls 'useless people and conversation,' and Jason would have been a street kid among more wealth than he'd seen in his life, which couldn't have been comfortable. Both Dick and Bruce, on the other hand, get frustrated by not being able to work on more important things, but they're very good at tamping that down and putting on a show for the media and such.

In his case, this is what he grew up with. Rich parties with richer people, and learning how to keep everyone around him talking about themselves so he hardly ever had to fill in to keep the conversation going. It's only slightly different now that he basically runs Wayne Enterprises, because he gets to get involved in conversations with high-ranking about the business, which is slightly less useless. He also, to the ones he doesn't like, plays a game of seeing how many veiled insults or backhanded compliments he can sneak past them before they start to actually notice and react.

He's gotten _pretty high_ , sometimes.

Bruce hasn't left quite yet, but he can see the little signs that he desperately wants to. He sympathizes, but he's certainly not going to help. As much as he's willing to do this, he's not entirely happy with the short notice, or the fact that he's having to put off the one night a month that he and Jason make sure to clear their schedules and have both nothing to do, and a free next day.

Usually at this point they'd be an _amazing_ dinner in — his mouth waters just thinking about some of Jason's recipes — and through a couple episodes of some show, and honestly would probably be fucking on the couch. More episodes after that, just lying together warm and satisfied, until the mood hit again. Oh, and he's _missing it_.

He takes a bigger drink of the champagne in his hand than he's been allowing himself all night — second glass; he's just tipsy enough to not die of absolute boredom — and then smiles engagingly at the woman talking at him. About her new home, and the renovations she's planning, and he can practically see how Jason would roll his eyes if he were within hearing range.

He has to keep the smile instead, pressing his tongue against the bottom of his mouth so he won't say anything he shouldn't. Jason must be rubbing off on him, if he actually has to nearly bite his tongue not to be sarcastic or comment on how _little_ he cares about what this woman does with her enormous mountains of wealth. That means he's doing better than Damian would though.

He's also heard some very entertaining stories about how Jason would cut people like this down to size and pointedly demand why they needed _another_ home when there were people in lower Gotham who didn't have one at all, and why didn't they put some of that money into helping _that?_ He almost wishes he'd been around to see Jason at work; he can fully imagine a smaller, devastatingly sharp little Jason, wrecking the nights of anyone who flaunted like that. _God_ he can only imagine how much trouble Bruce had trying to keep him even a little bit in line during these.

He drifts a bit, keeping just enough of his attention on the woman to make sure he can answer if she asks him anything. This is such a waste of time.

Suddenly there's a presence at his shoulder, and the woman is greeting what he's absolutely sure is Bruce, eyes doing that _thing_ that almost all of the women in here do when they spot a new target of the 'rich, single, and handsome' variety. Namely Bruce or Dick, but he gets it a fair amount too. After all, even if he's officially a Wayne, he's still got Drake attached to his name too, and that more minor fortune is all his. Plus there's his role in Wayne Enterprises.

It's a more select type of women that go after him, instead of going after the more obvious money.

Bruce is doing his smiling, laughing, looking-more-drunk-than-he-really-is thing, and he forces himself to keep his smile as a hand clasps heavily on his shoulder, pulling him in against Bruce's side as he says whatever it is that he needs to to make the woman finally stop speaking and turn to leave. Which is when Bruce squeezes his shoulder a bit and murmurs that he's heading out.

About half a second before a window across the room shatters.

Bruce tenses up, and he does too for a second, until the landing figure calmly gets up, sweeping bits of glass off a leather jacket and dark pants. Then he almost snorts, because the _look_ on Bruce's face is somewhere between exasperated resignation and the kind of intense stare he uses when he's trying — unsuccessfully — to get one of them to not do something. Jason, on the other hand, is entirely confident as he walks through the groups of shocked socialites that shrink back and away from him, right towards where they're standing.

The helmet hides whatever it is that Jason's expression is — he'd bet smirk — but he raises an eyebrow a bit in a 'really' gesture anyway. He supposes he shouldn't have thought anything less was going to happen. In the ongoing not-quite-passive aggressive war between Bruce and Jason — only most of the time over him in some way or another — this does just _reek_ of Jason's particular style. After all, this is their night.

He drains his glass. Bruce shoots him an accusatory glance that he doesn't even bother reacting to because really, Bruce should have known something like this was coming too.

Jason strolls right up to them, takes the empty glass from his hand and sets it down on the floor like a gentleman, and then calmly grabs him up by the waist and flings him over one shoulder. He huffs out a breath, but doesn't really struggle, even though he can definitely reach at least a couple of Jason's weapons from here. Plus, he doesn't really want to _stop_ any course of action that gets him out of here. Not even with Bruce giving both of them the 'you better not' look.

He is an _adult_ , thank you very much.

"No need to worry!" Jason calls across the room, entirely ignoring Bruce. "Mr. Drake and I just have a couple things to talk about; he'll be just fine!"

Kind of questionable, but the Red Hood is _generally_ known as kind of a half-and-half mix of a crime lord and a hero, so they'll probably buy it. At least as long as he actually does show up in public tomorrow and reassure everyone that he's still alive, and no, the Red Hood was a total gentleman except for the whole breaking the window thing. He's going to have to come up with some sort of story for why he got picked up though, or he can make Jason do it. Yeah, probably that one.

He's also going to let Jason explain any damage or wrinkles to his suit to Alfred, because that part is _not_ his fault. That one he'll feel a bit worse about though. Maybe he can send along some gift or something to make Alfred a little bit less 'disappointed' with how they treated the suit.

He does his best to look just a little bit worried — and less like this is a very welcome 'kidnapping' — as Jason walks right back out with him slung over that one shoulder, holding him in place with an arm looped around the back of his thighs. By the looks people are giving him, and how they're mostly staring at _Jason_ , he's pretty sure he could have been utterly beaming and they still would have said he looked horrified. Luckily Jason picked a lower window to break, so carrying him out is not the immensely awkward thing it could have been; there's not exactly anything out here for him to hook a grapnel to.

He wonders a bit about exactly how Jason plans to get him out of here, considering how far they are from the city, or anything to swing on, but that question gets answered when Jason casually carries him over to a row of parked cars and drops him to his feet.

"You're not really going to steal one of these, are you?" he asks, as Jason sizes up the various cars.

"Just to get to the city," Jason says, before grabbing his arm and pulling him towards one of the middling-level Ferrari parked there. "I'll leave it somewhere easy to find. You can't honestly say you're not glad I'm rescuing you."

"Point," he agrees. "And Bruce?"

Jason gives a little crow of victory as he pulls on the handle of the door and it comes right open. "Is going to be hacking into my helmet any minute now and demanding I bring you back. Want to bet on how fast it is?"

He's ushered into the passenger seat, and waits until Jason's sitting in the driver's side and checking regular key-hiding spots before answering, "Bet what, exactly?"

"Choice of activity," Jason answers and then gives another little sound of satisfaction when he does turn up a key. "Trusting bastards really should know better. Carjacker's _dream_ up here."

"Carjackers can't get past our security," he points out, as Jason starts the car — it does give a very nice rumble underneath them — and starts to pull out of the circular gravel ring to get on the actual driveway and out of here. "Alright, you're on. He's got to deal with all the concerned citizens asking about my health and if I'm really safe. He can't hack your helmet still in that room; he'll have to get out somehow or ask Barbara to do it. Ten minutes."

Jason reaches up, unclasping the helmet and dropping it to the side of his hip, a little blinking light on the side telling him that Jason has it set up to be the equivalent of a speakerphone. Voice commands and everything.

"He'll do it himself, and he'll have to get someone to supervise the cleanup of the window too. Fifteen minutes." Jason flashes him a grin, eyes hidden behind that red domino mask he tends to wear beneath the helmet. "May the best man win, babe."

He snorts and leans back into the seat, idly reaching for the seat belt and clicking it over his chest. He keeps one eye on the dashboard clock as Jason drives, and at approximately twelve minutes the com in Jason's helmet buzzes to life. Jason groans and he smirks, raising his arms back behind his head and giving Jason a very satisfied glance.

 _"Jason,"_ Bruce growls, _"bring him back."_

"Not a chance," Jason calls back. "I told you this is my night, B. If you wanted to take him you should have asked a little earlier than the morning of. And, you know, actually _asking_ instead of demanding goes a long ways too, if you really want me to agree."

_"Someone needs to be on patrol, Jason. This isn't just—”_

"Oh for god's sake," Jason snaps, cutting Bruce off. "Look, I called Cass, alright? She'll be there in like two minutes to cover for you racing off to do your thing. Tim's mine, old man, and you're not getting him back until tomorrow. Deal with it."

With that, Jason reaches down and definitively shuts off his com in some way, bringing the car back to relative silence. There are still technically their phones, if Bruce really does need them for something or another, but he's pretty sure that Bruce will take the minor defeat and not press any further. After all, he also knows that Jason will just keep turning devices off until Bruce stops trying. Better to accept defeat gracefully, at this point.

"I'm yours, huh?" he teases.

Jason flashes him a smirk. "Damn right you are."

He smirks right back, and then casually comments "You know, I kind of like the fake thing you've got going on here. Red Hood the kidnapper."

He gets a sidelong glance for that, and an appraising little look. "As in _like?"_

He shrugs, shoots Jason another glance, this one through a little bit more of his lashes. "Well, maybe."

Jason gives a bark of laughter, and then slows the car down and throws it into park next to the curb of whatever sort of downtown street they're on. Not too bad a neighborhood. "Babe, if you want to get kidnapped by the Red Hood? I can deliver." The car turns off, and Jason turns a little further towards him. "That what you want?"

"It was my choice of activity," he reminds Jason, letting his arms come back down as he mirrors the tilt of his body, partially facing Jason.

"Yeah, it was." Jason's mouth curls into a slow smirk, eyes narrowing just a little bit. "Alright, babe. Am I taking Tim Drake or Red Robin? Cause those are going to be two very different sorts of games."

He lifts his chin, echoes that smirk with his own. "You haven't got what it takes to bring down Red Robin, Jason."

"Well, Tim Drake can't exactly be seen running from Red Hood, can he?" Jason counters, gaze flicking down his body and back up. "Don't want to give the old man _too_ bad of a heart attack. Keep the media down to a minimum, you know? Besides, I remember a couple fights that say that I can _definitely_ take down Red Robin."

The fact that he doesn't wince at the memory of those is really a testament to how much both of them have calmed down over the years.

"Well…” He has to keep himself loose, not tense or prepare like he wants to as he smirks at Jason, running the idea through in his head and deciding it's most definitely _happening_. "Guess you'd better catch me fast then, shouldn't you?"

He strikes the second the last syllable is out of his mouth, and he's fast and sudden enough that he manages to catch Jason hard enough across the jaw that it knocks his partner against the opposite door, at which point he's already spinning and shoving his own door open. He hears Jason spits a swear behind him, and he slams the door shut as soon as he’s out to give himself a fraction more time as he takes off running. Time will be everything in this.

Logically, without his suit, tools, or a better arena, he can never win this fight. Jason has longer legs, all the weapons, and the vehicle. He's going to need to hide to have a chance of escaping his 'hunter,' and that starts by getting Jason to leave the vehicle behind. It won't make them even, but it'll go a long way towards not getting him immediately run down. That means into one of the nearby buildings; make Jason chase him up and abandon the faster transportation.

It's pretty late, so the streets are deserted in wherever they are — he can get a look at the street signs in a minute and figure that out — which is definitely good.

He hears the other door slam, and then a shout of, "Little _bastard!_ " The apparent anger makes something in his heart thrill, and he picks a building and _runs_ for it. "Come back here!"

The distinctive sound of a grapnel makes him glance up, and he watches it embed itself in the concrete of the building he's heading towards before it draws taut. He leaps to the side, but one of Jason's hands catches the back of his suit jacket, wrenching him back and along with that momentum. He's dragged a few feet before he can manage to stretch his arms back far enough to get out of the jacket, and then he staggers to try and catch his balance. He ends up facing the opposite direction, so he plays a hunch and just _goes_. Right back towards the car, and hopefully the keys.

The snarl from behind tells him that he's right, and the adrenaline in his veins spikes as he hears the heavy thud of Jason's boots not at all far behind him. It's terrifying and thrilling and _how_ had he never thought of this game before? Or at least something similar?

He slides across the car's hood instead of slowing down enough to circle it, hooking his hand on the frame of the car to spin himself down next to the door and reach for the handle with his other hand in the same movement. He gets it open, dives inside as Jason straight up leaps _over_ the hood, and slams it shut just in time to lock it in Jason's face. One hand slams into the frame of the car, and he flashes a smirk at Jason as he reaches for the car keys.

And doesn't find anything.

His hand slides over the empty slot, and he stares for a moment in shock before he hears a muffled laugh, and the distinctive _shunk_ of all the locks disengaging. He grabs at the door handle but the door's already being yanked open, and there's a gloved hand reaching for him. He jerks away, towards the other side of the car, but it just closes on his leg instead of his arm and drags him back a couple inches. He kicks out the other foot but that's caught too, and he gets yanked backwards and partly out of the car, his chin smacking into the gearshift as his torso is pulled across the driver's seat.

Jason shifts over him, letting go of his legs and grabbing his wrists as he tries to turn and get up, yanking them both up into the air behind him and jamming a hard knee into his low back. "Where do you think _you're_ going?" Jason snarls from above him. "We're not done yet, little bird."

He gasps as Jason twists his arms higher, straining his shoulders before transferring both wrists to a single, gloved hand. He hears the clink of metal, and then a pair of cuffs is ratcheting closed around first one wrist and then the other, metal cold and shocking against this skin. He shivers, kicking his legs out and feeling his shoes grate against the pavement, not giving him near enough leverage to move the man on top of him. Jason is _heavy_.

"Going to behave for me?" Jason asks, voice low and demanding, one hand keeping his wrists twisted painfully high.

"You wish," he spits back, twisting his head so he can see Jason out of the corner of his eye. His breath catches just a little bit, because the smile that curls Jason's lips in response is vicious and predatory.

"We'll get there," his hunter promises. There's a familiar snap, a shift, and then he sucks in a sharp little breath because the thing Jason has in his other hand is a _gun_. He stares, stays frozen stiff as Jason brings it up and presses the muzzle slowly, precisely, against his cheek. "I'm going to get off your back," Jason murmurs, still with that smile, "and you're going to crawl over these seats and right down into the passenger foot space. Head towards the middle, all folded down and neat for me. That clear, little bird?"

He swallows, breathing against the sick, tight little feeling in his gut, the wash of strange thrill-fear- _want_ crawling under his skin at the feeling of that metal against his jaw. "You're not going to use that," he breathes, gaze flickering from the gun up to Jason's domino mask.

Jason's smile slides to a smirk, the gun pulls back, and then there's a _bang_ that slices into his eardrums and wrenches a cry of shocked pain from him. He jerks, staring in shock at the new hole in the passenger side door. Then the barrel brushes his cheek again, this time slightly warm, and he goes utterly still. It's a game, of _course_ it's a game, but there's still adrenaline _slamming_ through his veins, not quite understanding that this isn't _actually_ an 'about to die' scenario.

"Have anything to say to me?" Jason asks, voice low and serious, almost coaxing.

He shivers, thinking about his safeword, thinking about the feeling of the gun pressed to his cheek, and realizes that actually, no, he's still okay with this. He's nervous, but he trusts Jason to know most of his limits, and to stop the _second_ he says so. He doesn't need to right now.

"Alright," he agrees. "I'll do it. I'll do it."

Jason's mouth curls into something sharp and satisfied, and then his hunter is leaning down, lips brushing over his ear as the gun twists to point safely away from him. "That's a good pet," Jason whispers, "I knew you could behave."

The weight shifts off his back, the hand lets go of the chain between his wrists, and the gun pulls away from being pressed directly to his skin. It's still close, still aimed at him, but not so obvious and present a threat anymore. He watches Jason swap the gun to his left hand, leaving his right free as he shifts back against the open door, leaving a bit of room for him to move. At the arch of one eyebrow, he does. Slowly. It's awkward to move without his arms, but he manages to at least get his feet underneath him as a first step, getting leverage with his legs so he can start to lift his torso.

His head is down, forehead pressing against the leather of the seat as he tries to get up without making it look like a struggle, and so he entirely misses the fact that Jason is moving until that free hand _cracks_ across his ass. He yelps, pitches forward against the seat.

"Jason!"

Jason hits him again, just as hard, and he _gasps_ at the sharp sting of the blow, even through the layers of his clothes. " _Up_ ," Jason orders. "Or do you need a little help getting motivated?" A third hit, this one making him jerk forward against the seat.

"No!" he gasps, shaking his head and scrambling to move. It's awkward and he definitely gives himself a few bruises from knocking into things, but he manages to get across the car, and then twist himself around in the passenger seat until he can carefully slide down into the leg room below it. Or lack thereof, really. He only sort of fits in the space.

Jason gets comfortable in the driver's seat, shutting the door and then turning to him, the hand with the gun slung idly across the wheel. "Well, that looks a little cramped. You want a little more room down there, pet?"

He hesitates for a second, before cautiously answering, "Yes."

Really, he's not sure why he didn't expect the way Jason smirks, and purrs, "Well, ask _nicely_ then, little bird. Convince me."

Jason's free hand reaches out, tracing along the underside of his jaw, and he debates for just a moment before parting his lips and tilting his head, inviting the way those gloved fingers dip into his mouth, pressing against his tongue. He lets his eyes close, sucks lightly at the taste of leather and the faint tang of metal.

 _Bites_.

Jason yelps and he digs his teeth harder into the leather, refusing to let them draw out of his mouth as he hisses around them. Jason snarls back, grabs his jaw with the rest of that hand, and _slams_ his head against the dashboard hard enough that he bounces off of it. His mouth goes slack automatically, and Jason jerks the fingers away. Before he can do more than blink, Jason’s leaning down and reaching along his back, hand closing on the chain between his wrists.

He gasps as Jason drags his arms up into the air, craning them high enough that his shoulders and face are shoved down next to the gearshift, pinned down with nothing more than the firm grasp of that chain. It’s not exactly a perfect pin, but with him trapped down in the foot space in front of the seat, and with no room to maneuver, it works almost frighteningly well.

He hears the sounds of the gun being put away, and then Jason spits, “It’s a fucking shame this is a manual, cause I’d _really_ love to shove the stick between your teeth and handle that little _biting_ problem.”

His breath catches _hard_ , and he twists his hands against the cuffs, only succeeding in making them sting a little bit. He hears and feels the car start, and with a muffled roar it starts to move. Fast. He presses his face against the unforgiving plastic of the cup holders, opening his mouth a bit so he can breath slow and even through it, weathering the slight ache in his shoulders.

“Picture that,” Jason says, over the sound of the car and with a tug to his arms. “Put it right down your throat and just hold you on it, let you wear your teeth out where you can’t do any harm. Feel the rumble of the car through it. Maybe I won’t even take you to a bed this time, just shove that down your throat and get in the backseat to fuck that tight ass; fill you up while you choke on it.”

He swallows, and then finds himself _whining_. Low, quiet, but the desire in it shocks him. Judging by the sudden silence — he can’t tilt his head up enough to actually see Jason’s face — it shocks Jason too.

But when Jason speaks there’s only a vicious kind of satisfaction in the tone. “Well, look at what a little _slut_ you are, Timmy. Bet you’re hard down there, aren’t you? So fucking eager for me to use you however I want, however _long_ I want.” He shudders as Jason gives a rough laugh, voice dropping as he hisses, “What a _bad_ boy.”

He presses his feet against the door of the car, pushing as he squirms, realizing that Jason is absolutely right. He _is_ hard.

“You know what, slut?” Jason asks, letting his arms come down a few inches. “I don’t think you can wait till I get this across the city. I think you need something in you soon as possible, don’t you? That little whore hole of yours needs to be fucked, doesn’t it?”

When the _hell_ did Jason get this good at being so perfectly degrading?

He flushes, bites back another whine and a shiver. Which is when Jason yanks harshly at the chain, and he yelps at the sudden strain in his shoulders, curling as much as he can to try and ease the pressure off of them. It helps, barely, but he still has to grit his teeth and grind down on some other expression of pain.

“Sorry, did you think answering was _optional?_ ” Jason’s voice is a snarl again, dark and dangerous. “Let’s try that again. That little whore hole of yours needs to be fucked, _doesn’t it?_ ”

He gasps, and then manages a strained, “Fuck you!”

The pressure on his arms eases, and Jason laughs again. “Oh, that’s definitely a _yes_. Alright, _sweetheart_ , you just hold on a minute. If you were a little tamer I’d give you something to ease the wait, but since you’re such a bad boy I guess you’ll just have to wait till I get you all tied up. Bad whores don’t get rewards, Timmy.”

“I’m not your whore,” he hisses.

“Oh really? So you’re not hard? You’re not _desperate?_ ” He can’t quite answer, but Jason doesn’t wait anyway. “What a fucking liar you are, baby; gonna have to beat that out of you once we’re safely tucked away and nobody can hear you screaming.” Jason gives a little groan, and he _almost_ echoes it. “Get your ass all nice and red and sore before I fuck it, dig my fingers in and make you _beg_ for it. You didn’t need to sit down tomorrow, did you, pet?”

Then he does groan, strangled between his teeth but more than loud enough for Jason to hear it. He shudders, and the car slows and pulls to a stop, shuts off.

“Here we go, baby. Now, I don’t think you’ve got any intention of behaving while I carry you up — call it a guess — so how about we make it a little harder for you to run away, huh, babe?” A hand worms down between his side and the seat, and then there’s a mechanical clank and the seat shoves back, giving him more room. He gives a little sigh of relief before he even thinks about it, at least until Jason’s hand shoves down and grabs him through his pants.

He gasps, bucks before he can even start to control the motion, and Jason chuckles. The hand holding his arms lets go, and then he’s being dragged up and manually flipped over, his legs still caught in the floor space but his back arched painfully over the dig of the gearshift to the center of it, his head arched back between Jason’s legs. One hand closes on his throat, holding his jaw pressed closed and held tight, and the other slides right back down between his legs. This time it’s harder, massaging instead of just grabbing and he finds his back arching further, a moan escaping him that’s muffled by his forced-closed mouth.

“What a slut,” Jason murmurs, and when he drags his eyes open Jason’s watching him, mouth curved into a smirk. The hand releases him, and he strangles a sound of protest, forces his hips to lie still instead of bucking up into the vanishing touch. Then that hand is coming up, and his eyes widen as it unbuckles Jason’s belt.

Jason wouldn’t— Not in _public_ , right?

The belt gets tugged free of the loops, and he relaxes just a bit as Jason leans down, clearly going for his ankles. He struggles a bit then, as much as he can with his back forced into an arch and his legs still curled in, but he doesn’t do nearly enough to stop Jason from looping that belt around his ankles and dragging it tight. He pulls, but it’s sturdy enough to stay where Jason’s secured it, even without being hooked into an actual hole in the leather.

“There we go.” Jason sounds _very_ pleased with himself. “Now, you’re not going to try running away with tied together ankles and—” Jason’s hand grabs his cock again, and he cries out “—this really obvious hard on, now are you?”

He groans, and Jason lets go and reaches to grab his helmet, from where it’s gotten shoved towards the back. He pushes it on one-handed, it seals with a hiss of air, and Jason reaches down and rubs him through the pants again. He can’t help the little buck of his hips, and he can’t see the grin but he can _hear_ it in Jason’s voice.

“Long as you stay nice and docile over my shoulder, nobody’s going to see this, pet. Everybody can assume that I’m just having a nice, civil conversation with you, and nobody has to know that when I get you up to my safehouse I’m going to bruise you up nice and pretty and get you to _scream_. So really, whether you struggle is totally up to you.”

Jason pushes away from him, opening the door and climbing out, letting his head fall to the seat. He just barely has time to wiggle sideways so the gearshift isn’t digging directly into his back, and he can ease out of the necessary arch, before Jason is grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him back across the seats. He’s pulled all the way out, picked up and slung over Jason’s shoulder with his head hanging down near Jason’s ass, hips against his shoulder, which is a whole _other_ sensation.

He bites down on his tongue, Jason’s arm looped tight around his thighs and holding him steady. The door of the car shuts, and then they’re moving, and Jason is striding forward in long, confident strides. He lifts his head as best as he can, looking around to see if he can figure out exactly where they are, but all he gets is the flash of a street before he hears the click-fire of a grapnel, and he has half a second to tense up and fight the instinctive urge to grab onto Jason because his hands are _not free_ before there’s the hard pull of the wire and they’re in the air.

He closes his eyes against the sickening rush, gasping, “Shit!” at the sudden acceleration.

Jason’s laughing, but the grip on his thighs is tight and unforgiving. As much as it feels like he’s not secure, he is. Jason would _never_ let him fall, not without catching him anyway, and this is not that kind of game. About-to-die fear is a definite mood killer.

He still tightens the muscles in his stomach and thighs, clenching down on Jason’s shoulder as best he can manage. He might gasp again at how that rubs his cock against it, but luckily this one seems to be lost to the wind because Jason doesn’t comment on it. Not that he’s under any illusion that Jason can’t feel it. Maybe Jason just doesn’t want to say anything loud enough for anyone who happens to have a window open to hear, or maybe he’s just saving whatever else he has to say for later.

The moments of brief falling are a little unnerving, before Jason’s grapnel catches and sends them swinging again, but he breathes through it, keeps his eyes shut, and _trusts_.

They land on something, he hears that final click of the grapnel winding back up, and then Jason is striding forward just as confidently as he did on the street. He gets his eyes open in time to catch a slightly blurred vision of a smooth cement rooftop before there’s the bang of a door, and he’s carried down into a stairwell. The door swings shut behind them, trapping him inside the dimly lit corridor, and he turns his head to try and get some clue of where they’ve traveled, or what part of town they’re in.

When he can’t, he twists as much as he can and asks, “Where are we?”

Jason’s taking them down the stairs, ignoring the doors out into the actual floors. “You didn’t _really_ think that I was going to park the stolen Ferrari right in front of my actual safehouse, did you? Come on; you’re smarter than that.” He gasps at a sharp slap to his ass, before Jason squeezes his thighs with the arm looped over them and orders, “Now hush. Don’t want to draw attention, do you, little bird?”

He swallows, twisting his wrists against the cuffs and pulling at the belt around his ankles. He gets another slap for the effort, before Jason is pushing through a door and out into the building itself. The doors in the corridor, when he catches a glimpse, says that this is an apartment building. A fairly high-quality one, judging by the carpet and the space between the doors. He tries to match that up with what he knows of Jason’s various safehouses, but only whittles it down to three options before Jason is stopping at one of the doors.

Where Jason has the key stashed he doesn’t know, but it only takes him a second to get into the apartment. It’s dark, and Jason doesn’t bother turning on the lights as he shuts the door, locks it again, and then heads deeper in through the entry-corridor. There are a couple of open doors that he catches glimpses through as they pass by — kitchen, and what looks like a guest room — but Jason takes him right to the end of the corridor and into what he thinks is a living room.

And then promptly drops him to the floor.

He winces, glad that he at least landed on his side and not face first, or on top of his bound arms. It aches a bit, but not like it could have. Jason keeps walking, and then flips on some lamp or another that bathes the room in a soft kind of yellow light. He hears the hiss of Jason’s helmet coming off, and decides this is going to be his only real chance. If he lets Jason actually tie him _to_ something, or get him any more undressed, there’s no way he’s going to be able to get free.

He arches, bending his legs up so he can get his fingers on the belt around his ankles. It’s pretty easy to get it loose, and he pulls his feet out of the loop at just the same time that Jason apparently notices what he’s doing.

“Hey!”

He twists, looking up, and sees Jason bearing down on him, helmet gone but mask and jacket still on. So he strikes, twisting his leg and sliding it around to catch Jason’s ankle, sweeping it out from under him. Jason gives a surprised little yelp, toppling backwards, and he gathers his legs and scrambles to his feet. Jason is there just a second later, not restrained and much faster to get up, mouth curled in a sharp grin.

“Where you trying to go, Timmy?” Jason asks, as those shoulders roll and his partner lets the jacket drop down, catching and flinging it away to leave him in just the tighter, black armor beneath it. “Apartment’s locked down, key’s with me, and you’d never make it to the door anyway. Why don’t you just go on and bend over the couch and I’ll go light on you, baby?”

“You really think that’s going to work?” he counters, scanning what he can see of the apartment in his peripherals for anything he can use.

Jason’s smirk is outright _cruel_. “No. But I figured I’d give you a chance to behave, just for kicks. What do you think? Couch or the ground, to start with? I’m thinking couch, _then_ ground.”

He takes a step back, and Jason lunges forward instantaneously. There aren’t any weapons in Jason’s hands, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t at a huge disadvantage, given his lack of armor and the way his hands are restrained. If he just had a _pick_ …

Thought slides out of his head as he jumps back and away from Jason’s swipe, realizes that he’s just a couple inches away from the wall, and then leaps forward and under Jason’s second strike, into a roll. He manages to curl tight enough into it to get his arms down underneath his legs, coming up out of the roll in at least a slightly better position, hands cuffed in _front_ of him. Not a total fix, but this is way better. At least he can still use his hands this way, to a degree.

“Flexible little bird,” Jason says, voice quiet and low between them, smirk still on his face. “Can’t wait to test that out.”

Jason lunges again — always aggressive — and this time, instead of trying to dance around an apartment he doesn’t know, he strikes back. He clenches his jaw, waiting until Jason’s close enough to hit and then twists his hips to put power behind a sideways kick at Jason’s side.

Except then Jason’s hand closes around his ankle, looking like he just _predicted_ the attack, and then yanks on it. He staggers, hands flying out as he tries to keep balance with only the one leg still on the ground. Jason’s other hand grabs a fistful of his hair, wrenching his head back until his back arches, and then drags him across the living room and to the couch.

“Then again,” Jason says conversationally, as he lifts his hands and claws at the black glove protecting the hand Jason has in his hair, “A table sounds pretty good too. All kinds of tools in the kitchen I could use, since you’re being an uncooperative little _bastard_.” He’s shoved down over the couch, leg released but Jason’s knees shoving them apart instead of letting him get decent footing. “Let’s start simple though, yeah? Let’s get you outta these clothes.”

Jason’s free hand is tugging at his shirt, pulling what little of it is still tucked in out of his pants and shoving it up his back. Then that gloved hand circles around his waist and shoves between him and the couch, deft fingers undoing the button and zipper on his slacks. He gasps protest, claws harder at the hand in his hair, but none of it stops Jason from wrenching both his pants and underwear down over his hips, where it falls to his knees and gets caught by the spread of his legs.

That gloved hand slides back between his legs, grabbing his balls for a second before wrapping around his cock. He bites down on a moan, but a little bit of it still comes out. Strangled, but recognizable.

“Well look at that,” Jason says, voice a laugh, “the slut’s still hard. Really getting off on this, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

The hand wrapped around him lets go, fingers trailing down past his balls, over his perineum, and up between his cheeks. He squirms, and Jason yanks hard enough at his hair to make him cry out and arch, before he’s shoved back down. One of Jason’s fingers presses at his entrance, light enough not to be shoving into him, but hard enough for him to feel the threat of it. He pulls in a strained breath, digging nails in against the gloves — he’s sure Jason can’t feel anything but the pressure — as he fights not to rock against the rough material of the couch.

“Yeah,” Jason murmurs, finger pressing in just a little bit and then withdrawing, “I think table.”

Then he’s being wrenched up and off of the couch and across the room. He stumbles, pants and underwear falling around his ankles and hobbling him pretty much as effectively as the belt did. Jason doesn’t give him any leeway, just drags him by his hair when he can’t keep up, other hand bracing against his side to keep him up when he almost falls. He’s steered back through the apartment, to the open door of that kitchen, and he manages one quick glance around before Jason is kicking aside a chair and slamming him down on top of the sturdy table in the center of the room.

He gasps in air, and Jason circles around, grabbing hold of the chain between his cuffs and dragging his arms up, holding him loosely pinned over the length of the table. He starts to struggle, trying to twist his body around so he can follow, but Jason doesn’t pay him any mind. A key appears out of nowhere. Jason’s hands close around his wrists, one cuff unlocking, and he gets dragged a little higher onto the table as his hands are pulled over the edge of it, the handcuffs looped around one of the legs and then clicked back around his wrist.

“Just stay there a second,” Jason says, with a casual ruffle of his hair and a wicked smirk.

He snaps his teeth at the departing fingers, but they’re far out of range and he doesn’t even get close, nor is Jason at all threatened. He twists his hands against the cuffs, twists his body so he can slide off of the table and crouch by it instead. Jason’s opening cupboards, clearly searching for something, so he tries to kick out of the pants. He gets them down at least, reversed so just a foot or so it still caught on his shoes, before Jason makes a triumphant sound and retrieves something from within one of the lower cupboards.

Quickly, as Jason starts to turn around, he braces his shoulder underneath the table and strains upwards, lifting it on his back. It’s heavy, but he manages to stretch his arms down, _almost_ gets the cuffs to go underneath the leg—

The table slams back down under heavy weight, and he exhales a hard breath at the sudden pressure against his back. He looks up, right before a gloved hand curls in his hair and pulls, forcing him up to his feet. His hands pull tight against the cuffs, and Jason gives another wicked smirk and drags him back up onto the table, putting him face down, hips over the other edge and his cock digging almost painfully into the edge. Then Jason drops down to a crouch, that key back in his hand.

“Now, since you keep trying to get away, I’m just going to have to tie you down.” His breath catches at the way Jason grins, reaching for his wrists with sure hands. “I think you’ll be much better behaved when you’re restrained, little bird.”

One cuff clicks off, and he swings immediately. It’s the wrong side, so it’s a backhand instead of a punch, and Jason leans back and out of range without even a hint of effort. The free cuff clicks shut around the leg of the table, and then Jason turns the attention to his other arm, catching his wrist with one hand and twisting it over to the other leg so his arms are spread wide. He pulls, but Jason’s grip is as unyielding as the handcuffs, even when his partner leans back and grabs what has to be what he was searching for. Which turns out to be a roll of plastic wrap.

He swallows, _stares_ , and Jason’s grin widens. There’s nothing he can do — that works, anyway — to stop Jason from wrapping the plastic wrap around his arm and the table leg. It gets circled around both about five times, until his arm is flattened against the table leg and bound to it, fingers to about halfway up his lower arms. He can even do less about Jason freeing his other hand from the cuffs before repeating the process. When Jason steps back he’s trapped against the table, unable to do more than very barely wiggle his fingers underneath the plastic wrap. He’s definitely not going anywhere until he’s cut loose.

Jason smiles, and then steps forward and slides a hand through his hair, lifting his head a few inches off the table. “There we go. Not going to be running away from me now, are you pet?”

He shivers, feeling that familiar rush as it really, truly settles that it would be very, _very_ difficult for him to get out of this on his own. “Jason,” he gasps, gaze turned upwards towards his partner.

Jason’s fingers run across his scalp, lightly tugging at his hair and sweeping it back from his face. “Going to behave for me now, babe? Or do I need to put something in that pretty little mouth of yours?”

Before he can think of any real answer, before he can force his mind to come up with words, he finds himself giving a low whine, arching up into Jason’s hand. He _wants_ , and thank god Jason seems to understand without him needing to say anything, cause he’s not sure he could have articulated that he _wants_ something in his mouth. _Needs_ something.

“Yeah?” Jason murmurs. “Alright, babe. Don’t you worry; I can keep your mouth occupied.”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, or if he’s expecting anything specific, but it definitely startles him when Jason’s free hand slides down his throat, and then he feels pressure around the base of his neck. He almost whines again at the realization that it’s his _tie_ that Jason’s tugging loose, pulling out from underneath his chest. His breath comes harder, and then Jason’s hand is sliding down from his hair, curling under his jaw and pressing hard into pressure points to force it open. Right before the balled up tie is shoved between his teeth, filling his mouth with fabric.

Jason smirks, releases him, and he shudders and bites down on the tie as Jason circles the table. It feels used, it feels _degrading_ , and god if he isn’t having to bite back more whines. He could spit it out if he wanted to, he could make Jason give him a _real_ gag or tie something around his head to hold it between his teeth, but…

He bites down harder, and gives a muffled moan.

He hears the snap of a bottle being opened, and he only has about half a second to wonder where Jason got what must be lube from before he feels a hand spreading his cheeks, and then the cold drip of it against the outside of him. He squirms, hears the bottle being set down, and then the press of still gloved fingers, smearing the lube across his skin. It startles him when Jason’s knees push his legs together, all but pinning him, but that quickly washes away in the face of a finger pushing into him.

The glove is an entirely new sensation, and he groans and arches a bit, pushing his ass up towards Jason’s hands. The thought that Jason, behind him, is still fully clothed while he’s such a wreck — pants around his ankles, shoes still on, tie in his _mouth_ — is enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut and shudder again. Jason’s finger is practiced, sliding inside of him in easy strokes and curling, just barely brushing the edge of his prostate. The other hand pulls away, and then a moment later he feels blunt, slightly wet, _heat_ at the junction of his thighs.

He gasps as Jason grunts, and what’s most definitely Jason’s cock shoves in between his pressed together thighs, nudging his balls as his partner’s hips settle against him. The finger in him twists, drags out, and two press back in with unyielding pressure. He tenses a fraction, and Jason spits out a strangled swear, hips jerking against his, cock sliding slick and hot between his legs.

“Fucking _Christ_ ,” Jason spits, free hand curling around his thigh, presumably to hold him in place. “Every bit of you was made to be fucked, you know that?” Jason’s hips roll against his, fingers sliding inside of him in time with the steady thrust of the cock between his thighs. Another strangled swear, and then Jason pants, voice low and rough, “Soft, pretty little mouth. Tight, hot, little ass. Fucking—” An equally rough laugh. “Fucking smooth, firm thighs. Fuck, I could get off rubbing against your goddamn back, Timmy. Just pin you down and rut against you till I come all over your skin.”

Jason growls, the fingers inside of him twisting until they find his prostate, rubbing against it and making him cry out through the gag the tie makes. The pace picks up, and it feels so _good_ he honestly doesn’t care when Jason adds a third finger and it burns just a tiny bit.

“Look like a fucking wet dream with come all over your face,” Jason snarls, hips working to fuck his thighs fast and hard, each brush up against the base of his cock like a mini lightning bolt. “ _Fuck_ , know what I’m about to do to you, little bird? Gonna fucking mark you up. Get you all wet with my come. All _mine_.”

He jerks when Jason’s fingers pull out of him, whines something that almost comes out protesting when Jason pulls away and shoves his legs open, spreading them wide. Haze and pleasure aside, he is _not ready_.

Then Jason’s hands are grabbing his ass, spreading his cheeks. He almost shouts, almost uses his nonverbal safeword, before a thumb and finger are sliding into him and pulling him open. Not enough to hurt, but he can feel the curl of cool air inside him and it’s as bizarre as it always is so he squirms, gasping. Jason snarls behind him, cock pushing forward and sliding higher up, rocking against his tailbone for a few short, jerky thrusts.

He hears Jason’s sharply drawn breath, and then his partner’s drawing back, free hand abandoning his ass, cock fitting against his stretched-open hole, and Jason _shouts_.

He echoes it as he feels the heat and splash of Jason coming in him, head of his cock pressing against him but not shoving forward, not pressing in, and oh _god_. He cries out, arching his back as he tries to process the familiar sensation of Jason coming inside of him with the lack of actual penetration that he’s used to having with it. He ends up clenching hard around the fingers keeping him held open, ends up squirming and then whining as Jason’s cock slips and the last couple of splashes end up hitting his perineum and balls instead.

Jason gives a long, drawn-out groan, and pulls away. The fingers slip from inside him, and he shivers and grinds the tie between his teeth, feeling Jason’s come sliding down his balls and god it’s filthy and degrading and _wonderful_.

There’s the scrape of wood against tile, and he opens his eyes in time to watch Jason swing that kicked chair around in front of him and sink down on it, sprawling backwards with a satisfied groan. His cock’s still out of his pants, slowly softening, and he stares in disbelief as Jason slides a hand into his pocket and comes up with a lighter and a slim metal case that he knows holds cigarettes.

Jason pulls one of those cigarettes out, lights it, and then tucks both case and lighter away as he holds the cigarette between his lips. He makes a sharp, protesting noise against the gag as Jason leans his head back, takes the cigarette out, and exhales smoke towards the ceiling, caught somewhere between stunned and still painfully aroused.

It doesn’t help that Jason’s always looked _really_ hot smoking, nevermind smoking right after sex, with the flush still in his cheeks and the lazy, satisfied air to him.

“Relax,” Jason says, with a smile. “Disabled the fire alarm when I moved in.” He manages to summon up a glare, and Jason’s smile curls to a smirk, free hand lowering to palm that soft cock before tucking it away and refastening his pants. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not done with you yet, Timmy. I remember saying that I was going to get your ass nice and red before I fucked it. Just wait your turn like a good boy; I’ll get back to you in a minute.”

He snarls through the mass of the tie, tugging against the plastic wrap and glaring _daggers_ at Jason, who only watches him with calm amusement and that little smirk. He’s not getting anywhere, so he forces himself to think, to focus, pressing his forehead against the table and clenching his jaw tight enough to ache. Then he carefully moves to pin down the pants clinging to his feet with one heel, and rest his weight on the table so he can work on getting his feet out from inside them. It’s slow, frustrating work, especially with how he has to twist his hips and his legs, and every time he does it’s a painful reminder that he is _achingly_ hard and that’s trapped between him and the wood.

He ends up having to pin the backs of his shoes down, one at a time, and yank his feet free before he can actually get them out of the pants; the shoes were just not cooperating even a little bit. That leaves him in a pair of black socks, and the white dress shirt that he’s strangely still wearing, and is even still totally buttoned.

He’s just working on getting his footing and trying to figure out what his next move is when he hears the chair scrape back, and jerks his head up to find Jason flicking the butt of the cigarette into the sink, legs stretching out.

“Quite the show,” Jason comments, with a little smirk, “watching your ass wiggle like that.” He flushes, and then Jason murmurs, “Desperate little whore.”

It jars him for a second, because Jason’s tone is soft, almost fond, and he knows he’s heard that exact same voice saying much kinder things. He blinks, stares, and then Jason’s shoving up from the chair, all back to business. He jerks as Jason circles the table, a hand touching his shoulder and then running possessively down his side and to his ass. He bides his time, twists his head so he can see, and then kicks out the second that Jason’s in range.

It doesn’t catch him, but Jason does step back, looking up at him with one raised eyebrow. “Oh, back to this game, are we? Alright then, sweetheart.”

He almost wishes he hadn’t when he watches Jason retrieve the roll of plastic wrap, and then circle back towards his legs. He kicks out, makes it as difficult as he can, but honestly he’s already restrained and doesn’t have the room to maneuver, so the best he manages is stalling Jason for about ten seconds per leg, before both of them are bound to the table with enough wrap to keep him totally still. He can arch his back, twist his head, and wiggle his hips, but that’s about it.

Jason’s gloved hands slide over his ass, squeezing his cheeks and pulling them apart, and he gives a choked, helpless noise and tries to deny how utterly _amazing_ it feels to be so completely at Jason’s mercy. He gasps when Jason’s left hand slips inwards, thumb pressing to his hole and sliding easily inside, fucking him in slow, easy little thrusts. He jerks against the table, shuddering and giving a low, painfully needy whine.

“I know, babe,” Jason murmurs, thumb curling down and hooking at his rim, pulling at him. “Just need something filling you up, don’t you, slut? We’ll get there. First you gotta take your beating, remember?” The thumb slips out, and he barely has a moment to breathe before Jason’s hand cracks down across the back of his right thigh, and he _yelps_ and jerks forward. “You’ve been a _bad_ boy, Timmy. Running from me, trying to fight me, biting me… You’ve gotta take your punishment before you get any kind of a reward.”

Jason’s hands slide up his sides, pushing his shirt up beneath him until it’s bunched midway up his ribcage, and his lower back is bare. He shivers at the trace of those fingers as they slip back down, feeling the slight wetness on the leather as it slides down his skin. He muffles a whine into the gag, grinding it between his teeth and giving a harder shiver.

He feels Jason shift over, and then one of those hands presses against the small of his back, holding him in place, while the other gropes first one cheek of his ass and then the other. The first hit feels more like a test than anything else, because it stings a bit but it doesn’t _hurt_ how he expects it to. Doesn’t even make him jolt forward or give any real noise.

Jason gives a hum of satisfaction, hand groping at his ass with hard, tight fingers. “Alright, baby, let’s bruise this pretty ass up, shall we? You scream as loud as you want to; nobody can hear but me.”

The next smack is much harder, the leather of the glove giving an extra bit of weight to hit as Jason hits him, the sound echoing through the kitchen. He gasps, but then stubbornness slides up his spine like steel and he _snarls_ instead at the second blow, clenching his jaw together and refusing to let Jason have him just like that. He jolts at each strike, but breathes through his nose and keeps his jaw firmly closed, strangling the sounds in his throat before he can give Jason the satisfaction of tearing them from him.

Jason isn’t giving him the chance to rest between blows like he did the first couple, evidently responding to his challenge. The hand on his back stays firm as Jason spanks him, the sting slowly growing to an aching fire underneath his skin, heat spreading with each fresh blow of Jason’s hand. He squirms as best as he can against the pin, venting with that instead of noise and pressing his head hard against the table, breathing harder, and _harder_.

Then Jason’s hand curves, coming up and _nailing_ the sensitive spot where his thigh meets his ass, and he _yelps_ at the sudden, sharp sting of it. It’s not any worse than the ache in the rest of his ass, but it’s unexpected and new and shocking.

Jason laughs, hits him on the other leg to even it out and gets almost the same noise from him. Then the attention returns to his ass, and he’s sure it’s not his imagination that Jason’s hitting harder, the loud _crack_ of it slicing through the kitchen with every impact. He squirms harder too, bites down on the tie until his jaw aches in counterpoint to the pain of the spanking, and then Jason gives one hard _smack_ and he finds his mouth dropping open in a gasp followed by a thin whimper.

He shakes in anticipation, but there’s a pause, Jason’s fingers rubbing against his back in almost soothing little circles. “There we go, baby,” Jason murmurs. “You want to make that noise for me again?”

It takes Jason four more hits in rapid succession, but he whimpers again, trembling against the table. Another pause, and Jason’s hand rubs more obviously against his back. He’s given just enough time to relax a tiny bit before another strike tenses him back up, then a second, a third, and he cries out, jerking forward against the table.

It’s three more repetitions before he recognizes the pattern, recognizes that every time he gives Jason a noise, he gets a little break between the strikes. Not a long one, but just enough for him to ease a fraction before Jason’s working him harder, _higher_. Until that pattern abruptly breaks, and he’s crying out but Jason’s not stopping, just pressing down on his back and growling over the sound of the impacts, hitting him hard and fast and there’s no break, no _pause_.

He twists against the table, cringes into it to get away, but Jason just keeps going, keeps hitting him harder and harder and _harder_ and he sobs and shakes and feels a _scream_ start to gather in his chest—

And it stops.

Both of Jason’s hands are on his back, rubbing up his sides and along his spine and he’s still shaking, still trembling, giving a long, high, _keen_ of a sound.

Jason’s saying something, voice as soft and soothing as the hands on his back. Then one of those hands is in his hair, pulling his head up, and his gaze is blurry with tears but Jason’s kneeling in front of him, hands gentle in his hair and against his cheeks. He whimpers when Jason reaches in and tugs the tie out of his mouth, dropping it to the side and swiping a thumb over his bottom lip instead, holding his gaze with calm, steady blue eyes.

“You gonna behave for me, baby?” Jason whispers, and he shudders.

“ _Yes_ ,” he begs. “Please, _please_ , I’ll be good. I’ll be good for you, Jason, just _please_. Please—”

“Hey,” Jason says, interrupting his babble by hooking that thumb into his mouth. “I believe you, baby. Knew there was a good boy in there; knew you could behave. You just stay still for me, sweetheart. I got you.”

Jason’s hands leave his head, carefully easing it back down. He closes his eyes, trembling and giving soft little sobs of noise. He feels pressure on his right arm, hears a rip and it eases away. It takes him until the other arm to realize that Jason’s cutting him loose from the plastic wrap, but the most he does is draw his arms up onto the table and curl up a little bit, as Jason does the same for his legs. When he’s free, Jason pulls his hips back a bit by a careful, one-handed grip, and then the other hand slides down between his legs.

He cries out at the touch of that hand to his cock, twisting into it and then giving a second cry at how that relights the aching fire of his ass.

“Jesus,” he hears Jason mutter, and then the hand strokes him a couple times, grip gentle but still making him give a sob of desperation. “So fucking hard for me, babe. So wet. You just let go, baby; I’m going to take care of you.”

The hand leaves him, and he gives a cry of loss before fingers are sliding up between his cheeks and into him, slick with lube but almost unforgiving in how they push into him, stretching him wide around three fingers. He shakes, and Jason groans as the fingers begin to rock in and out of him, easing him open as he digs his nails into the table, cock throbbing between his legs.

“Almost ready for me,” Jason murmurs, sounding strained. “Just gotta loosen you up a little more before I get you off, babe. Just hang on; you’re doing goddamn beautifully. Took all that like a dream, Timmy. So fucking perfect for me.”

Warmth flushes down his back, and despite the pain — or maybe because of it — he pushes back into the press of Jason’s fingers, rocking up to meet them. The sharp little inhalation he gets from Jason is entirely worth the ache, and he whimpers and tries to spread his legs wider, tries to push himself up a little bit on shaky arms so he can arch his back.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jason breathes. “Alright, you got it, babe.” The fingers pull out of him and he whines, but Jason’s other hand strokes up his back, and he can hear the slight sounds of fabric and little clinks of metal. “You just relax for me, okay? Just let me in.”

Jason’s cock presses against him, and he whimpers at the feeling but goes lax, relaxing against the table and letting Jason do what he wants to. Which is press inwards, slow and careful, stretching him open inch by inch as he shudders, until Jason’s hips are pressing against his ass, and it’s aching and hot and he feels so incredibly _full_ and he can’t help but dig his fingers into the table and clench a bit.

Jason swears, spitting a harsh, “ _Jesus fuck_ ,” into the air. One hand presses against his low back again, as Jason rolls his hips in a careful, testing movement that makes him give a breathless cry. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last,” Jason grinds out. “Too goddamn perfect, babe. Don’t you dare hold back; you _scream_ for me, Tim.”

Both of Jason’s hands slide down and grab his hips, pulling him a couple inches back so he’s not pressed right to the table. Then those fingers tighten, hard enough to hurt and ache, and Jason pulls back and just _slams_ into him.

He _does_ scream, arching and digging his nails harder into the table, head tossing back to aim it at the ceiling. Every pounding thrust of Jason’s slams his hips into his ass, sweeping hot pain through him and making him shake, making him throb and _need_. He screams and cries and _shudders_ against the table, pain and pleasure twisting together inside of him and rising, _rising_.

He sobs, and then one of Jason’s hands is abandoning his hip and curling into his hair, wrenching him up and back. His hands scrabble against the table, searching for purchase, and Jason snarls into his ear and orders—

“ _Now!_ ”

And he’s shaking _apart_ , feeling bursting inside of him as he arches back and _shrieks_ , coming untouched. And Jason’s pressing him down against the table, slamming desperately into him and _shouting_ a release of his own, jerking against him and biting down hard into his shoulder; one sharp burst of pain across his senses even through the barrier of his shirt.

He fades out, losing some time to the sweet ache and bliss washing through him, his mind floating off.

He comes aware to Jason slipping out of him, hissing a curse against his back before carefully gathering him off the table, lifting him with gentle hands and up into strong arms and a sturdy chest. He just breathes, knowing that he’s being carried but not caring, only whimpering a tiny bit when he’s set down on something soft and Jason pulls away.

Instantly there’s a hand against his face, combing through his hair, and Jason is whispering, “Hey, I got you, babe. You’re okay.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but he shifts into the touch, opening his mouth to take a deeper breath as he shivers. Then there’s heat beside him, and he’s being picked up again and gathered against a chest, which tilts downwards. It takes him a few long minutes to understand that he’s lying on top of Jason, who is lying on something else, and there’s some sort of blanket pulled over him. When he does understand that, he just shifts a bit to bury his face against Jason’s neck and get a little closer, relaxing into the stroke of fingers through his hair and down his back, and the soft, meaningless bits of praise Jason’s whispering into his hair.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, but eventually he feels together enough to lift one of his hands and slide it over Jason’s side. Jason tilts into it, then presses a gentle kiss to the top of his head. He gives a tiny sound, pulling his head up. Blindly, he finds what he’s pretty sure is Jason’s jaw and kisses it. A moment later Jason is shifting, pulling his head up a bit to slide their mouths together.

A soft moan climbs out of his throat, and he feels Jason smile.

“Hey, babe,” Jason murmurs, fingers stroking through his hair.

His mouth curls in his own soft smile, and he squeezes down on Jason’s side. “Hey,” he breathes.

When he opens his eyes Jason is looking down at him, blue eyes soft and warm, unguarded in a way he’s pretty sure he’s the only person to ever see. He smiles a little wider, and Jason echoes it.

“How’re you feeling?”

He checks in, shifts a bit, and then murmurs, “Sore. Good.” A little laugh slides out of him, and he closes his eyes again and lowers his head to press against Jason’s shoulder. “ _Really_ good.”

“You’re totally high,” Jason murmurs, but it’s fond and amused. “Just saying this now, this is something I _definitely_ want to do again. That was a lot of fun.”

He lifts his head, bracing a hand on Jason’s armored chest so he can look down at his partner, raising one eyebrow. “You had fun slamming my head into a dashboard and threatening me with a gun?”

For a second Jason winces, and then cautiously answers, “Yes?”

He snorts, letting his mouth curl in a tired smile. “Yeah, so did I.” Jason _grins_ , and he thumps the hand on Jason’s chest down with enough force for Jason to feel it. “Get out of all this. I want cuddles and you are _uncomfortable_.” With that proclamation he rolls sideways and off of Jason, and then _gasps_ when his ass hits the bed, arching high. “Ah!”

Jason snickers, climbing off the bed. “Yeah, _that’s_ going to be sore for awhile, babe. You are _really_ tough to break, you know that?”

“Oh my god,” he breathes, wincing and very carefully laying himself back down. “You _sadist_.”

“Masochist,” Jason fires right back. “You loved it, and you’re going to love it in the morning too when I get my hands on your ass, bring you up and eat you out till you’re wet and—”

He throws the pillow, and Jason devolves into laughter, casually tossing it back and then shedding his pants before climbing back into the bed, nude this time. Careful hands pull him close, taking the pressure off his ass as Jason pulls him up and then reaches over to click the light off, once he’s settled mostly on top of his partner, where he likes to be. He grumbles at the skim of Jason’s fingers over his ass, swats at Jason’s side hard enough to make his partner grunt, but doesn’t actually reach down and stop the exploration of his heated, abused skin.

“You know,” Jason murmurs after a moment, “you’ve got _two_ loads of me in there. Still gonna be all wet and used tomorrow. Can’t _wait_ to just rim you open and then—”

Jason exhales in a harsh shove of breath when he elbows his partner right in the stomach, then follows it up with a hard smack to Jason’s side.

“Jason,” he grumbles, into his partner’s shoulder, “you let me sleep or I’ll tell Alfred you’re the one who ruined my suit.”

A beat of silence, and then Jason whispers, “You wouldn’t dare,” with something like horror in his voice.

“ _Watch me_.”


End file.
